The Anger of Achilles
by TheRavenclawAthena
Summary: Achilles and Patroclus share an unbreakable bond in The Iliad. But where did it come from? This story explores the bond the two share, from children until their deaths. In progress.
1. Chapter 1

The hot sun beamed down on the two boys as they exited the stifling classroom, waving a hasty goodbye to their tutor who'd cooped them up in a cramped room for hours in an attempt to teach them dusty dates of days long past. Finally free, the boys headed outside into the beautiful day, golden hours lingering tantalizingly ahead of them in which to do whatever they liked, at least until the next day's lessons.

One boy was fair and one was dark. The blonde boy was about a head taller, and he exuded a sort of natural calmness which made his company delightful. His movements had an effortlessly lazy grace about them. He was carrying, as he so often did, a thick book which looked inappropriately large in his small arms. This was Patroclus.

Achilles was a couple of years younger and a few inches shorter than his companion, but his personality was much larger. He ran everywhere, talked incessantly, and never slowed down, because he never needed to. He had hot blood in his veins and fire behind his eyes. Yes, Achilles was certainly destined to be a great warrior, and even at such a young age, he knew it. Before fighting was written in his destiny, it was stamped in his blood.

Patroclus floated dreamily to his favorite reading spot, the soft patch of grass under the Cyprus tree. He opened the book before he even sat down, his feet guiding him rather than his eyes. He let himself evaporate into the pages, forgetting the world.

Achilles looked at Patroclus and sighed, exasperated. He'd never understood Patroclus's fondness for words. Achilles was not a strong student. He was certainly a bright boy, but he wasn't able to sit still for long enough to read more than a few pages at a time. He was too preoccupied to absorb what he was taught; his mind was constantly racing with thoughts of battles and glory, and he knew he'd be able to win more honor by fighting than by learning his lessons, so he deemed them unimportant.

Deciding that the best course of action was to ignore Patroclus, Achilles began swinging his wooden sword around, fighting invisible foes and talking incessantly in his usual manner. He was always daydreaming about how he would win _kleos_ , or glory won in battle, for his father Peleus and for his city Phthia. "And then I'll kill them all and free the city," he finished his soliloquy finally with another flourish of his sword, turning around and facing Patroclus. "Papa will be so proud, won't he?"

But Patroclus did not appear to be paying attention to his younger cousin. His golden head was bent over the thick book, the sunlight twinkling on the words as his mind devoured them.

Frustrated to the point of provocation, Achilles poked Patroclus with the point of his sword. "Are you even listening to me, Pat?"  
Patroclus's head raised immediately. "Yes."

"Then what did I say?" Achilles was skeptical.

"You were talking about how you'll save the city from attacks when you're a soldier," Patroclus answered without hesitation. He'd mastered the art of half paying attention to Achilles while simultaneously reading. Plus, Achilles always talked about the same thing: fighting.

Achilles smiled, mollified. His moods swayed like the temperaments of the gods; he was perfectly happy again, and did not even remember the overwhelming frustration he'd felt a few minutes earlier.

"Come on, I'll duel you," Patroclus said, picking up another wooden sword.

He would rather be reading, certainly, but he looked on Achilles as a younger sibling whose whims must be obeyed. Plus, Patroclus was a fair fighter himself. He wasn't as strong or fierce as Achilles, but he had an uncanny way of predicting his opponent's next move which had enabled him to win many a duel against the hotheaded Achilles.

The two boys were certainly very different, although they did not yet fully grasp what this would mean for them, and for their country.

Patroclus was a thinker. He was always grappling with difficult ideas, and conquering them. He was quiet, but deep. Although he didn't usually voice his opinions publically, he had firm resolve. His father Menoetius had sent him to live with Peleus, Achilles' father, at a young age, and Patroclus had slipped smoothly into palace life, forging an unbreakable bond with Achilles. Patroclus had the ability to quietly fit in wherever he went, and people naturally trusted him. These traits would one day lead him to his death.

Achilles was a fighter. From the time of his birth, his father Peleus and mother Thetis had known he would be special. Zeus and Poseidon had both wanted to marry the beautiful Thetis, but a prophecy which stated that the son of Thetis would be more powerful than his father caused them to turn from her. So Thetis had instead married Peleus, a mortal, so that her son would be half-mortal, and no threat to the gods. However, Thetis had not been satisfied with having a demigod for a son, so she had taken matters into her own hands and twisted the destiny of Achilles. In an attempt to protect Achilles from his fated death in battle, she'd dipped him in the River Styx when he was an infant, which made him invincible. This invincibility would one day cost him his life.

It was only a matter of time before these crucial differences would separate the two, and cruel fate would wrench them apart. But the bond they shared would never be broken.


	2. Chapter 2

Patroclus felt as if Achilles did not need him anymore, and this hurt him.

Everything had changed that day when Achilles was nine years old, and Patroclus eleven. A blind man and a centaur had stolen Achilles away from Patroclus.

Calchas, the renowned Argive seer, had prophesied that a great war would one day take place in Troy, and that the Greeks could only win against the Trojans with Achilles fighting on their side. Achilles' fate was sealed: He now was bound to fight, although he certainly would have been a warrior even without the prophecy. Still, although the prophecy did not change Achilles, it did change many other things. Peleus no longer dealt so laxly with Achilles, nor did he allow him to run free. Peleus knew he could not teach his son everything he needed to know, so he'd sent Achilles to train with Chiron.

Chiron, an old friend of Peleus, was a centaur and master of healing who'd trained many Greek heroes, including Jason and Hercules. Achilles became Chiron's next responsibility, and his prodigy. Achilles lived with Chiron for months and learned many skills including the art of fighting, using weapons, healing, and playing the lyre.

Patroclus had been left behind to read musty books and take lessons from a senile tutor whom he was smarter than. Patroclus was lonely. If he'd searched his feelings long enough, he would have discovered that he was jealous, too. But he was afraid to examine himself too closely, because he did not know what emotions would come leaking out.

The days all ran together and formed years, none of them standing out to Patroclus. But today, at least, would be special: Today, after five long years, he was finally going to see Achilles again.

Achilles, now fifteen, had completed his time with Chiron. Actually, he'd been sent away. He'd become unruly, stealing things and vandalizing the other centaurs' homes. Overconfident in his abilities, he'd begun pushing the boundaries, as if daring Chiron to do something about it. And Chiron did. Despairing of Achilles' disobedience, and perhaps knowing that Achilles had absorbed all the information and skills he had to teach, Chiron had sent the rascal packing back home to his father.

But Patroclus knew that Achilles was not a scoundrel. He was simply bored. He had always required constant stimulation, and now he needed to be taught by someone with new assets to offer. Peleus knew this too, so he arranged that Achilles would return home briefly, and then leave again to train with Phoenix, king of the Dolopians.

And today was the day when Achilles would return. Nerves bubbled in Patroclus's stomach as he waited anxiously by the window, all of his senses straining for some sign of Achilles' arrival. Finally, he heard horses' hooves, and then he saw a magnificent chariot ride up, pulled by Achilles' horses Xanthus and Balius.

Achilles stepped out, said a few words to his charioteer, and turned towards the house with an expression of contented familiarity. He was home.

Patroclus, always shy, stepped into the yard hesitantly. He looked at Achilles. He felt small and insignificant in comparison to the tall, broad man standing in front of him.

Achilles looked back, sizing him up. He acted a bit defensive, almost as if they were strangers.

Achilles, although still young, had become a man. The pressures and expectations forked onto him from such a young age had given him an unwarranted sense of duty. But his mischievousness still remained. It would only leave when he had lost everything.

Achilles, Patroclus would soon learn, rarely smiled with his lips anymore. Warriors were not supposed to show emotion, that much Chiron had taught him. However, his eyes betrayed him and undermined the stoicism of his face. Dark and expressive, those eyes clearly showed what he was truly feeling. And right now, they were sparkling.

"Patroclus." He held out his arms and embraced his friend.

Patroclus smiled, relieved. He knew that Achilles' severity was all an act, and that he had returned fundamentally unchanged.

The two did not get time to talk to each other until later that night, after the celebratory feast had ended. Achilles played the part of the long-lost son perfectly, glowing in the attention and praise from his father and other nobles of the court. He knew his role, and he stepped into it willingly, wearing the responsibility like a cloak. He exuded charisma as he laughed and joked, and it felt as if he had never really left. Patroclus remained in the background as usual, observing. He could tell that Achilles was becoming bored with the attention as the night waned, his laughs becoming forced and his focus wavering.

Later that night, after Patroclus had returned to his room to prepare for sleep, he heard a knock on his door. Achilles's face greeted him when he opened it.

"I needed to get away from all the fuss," he said, grinning boyishly with a hint of bashfulness.

Patroclus opened the door wider. "Tell me about Chiron," he said with a smile, knowing Achilles had been bursting to speak of his time spent with the centaur.

"Well, he taught me how to fight, which was interesting, but he taught me a lot of useless stuff as well, such as healing—I mean honestly, I'll be too busy fighting to bother with _healing_ people—but then I started to get bored, so I nicked some of his things and made a general ruckus, and he sent me home."

Patroclus laughed at Achilles' summary of his time with Chiron. "And now you're going to train with Phoenix?"

"Yeah! I feel like I'll actually learn from him; he's been in wars, you know, and has real experience."

Patroclus and Achilles discussed Phoenix for a long time. Part of Patroclus was glad that Achilles was excited to train more; part of him protectively wished that Achilles would not be so eager to fight in real battles.

After a while, Achilles turned serious, and Patroclus saw his new maturity shining through, unhindered by the pressure of prying eyes. "The war's about to start, Pat," he said, his tone full of resignation.

It was the first time Patroclus had heard Achilles mention the war. They all knew it was coming; the prophecies did not lie. But now it was real, solid, tangible. Now Patroclus realized that he was about to lose his friend again, this time possibly for good. Fate was waiting behind a thin curtain, ready to step in and change things forever.

"I want you to come with me—no, not as a soldier," he added hastily, catching the look of confusion that flashed across Patroclus's face. "There's plenty of need for other things…spies, and…well, I'm not sure, but it'd be good for you to get out of this house and live a little."

He knew what Achilles was doing. He was trying to say that he, Patroclus, needed to do this. But in reality, Achilles was the one who needed Patroclus, exactly as he had when they were children, when Achilles had always vied desperately for Patroclus's attention. Now Patroclus was needed again, but this time in a much more serious way.

"What do you say?" Achilles prompted, breaking the long silence.

Achilles's dark eyes hadn't changed at all, and now they contained a sort of guarded eagerness. His body was taller, stronger, suppler, but those eyes…They, more than anything persuaded Patroclus.

"Yes."


	3. Chapter 3

Loneliness. That was what Achilles felt.

But the music kept him company. He melted into it, and it completed him. He traded in his sword for a lyre; his anger for tranquility. He sat and played and did not think, because thinking hurt, and Achilles had had more than enough pain for one lifetime.

Achilles was misunderstood. They, all his former compatriots, had given up on him. He could imagine them in his mind's eye, grumbling and muttering of his betrayal. _If they think I'm a coward, let them_ , he thought bitterly. _At least I will survive this bloody war._

They'd even sent dispatches to persuade him to return to battle. Odysseus the cunning, with his slanted tongue. Phoenix the aged, with his attempt to remind Achilles of his younger days, when they'd trained together. Ajax the strong, whose sense of duty was so overpowering that he was unable to do anything but fight. He scoffed at these men even as he fed them, and chuckled at their meager bribes from Agamemnon. As if he could be persuaded to die for a pretty girl and a good horse.

Agamemnon certainly thought Achilles was a coward. There was no doubt about that. More than scorn, Achilles felt pity for Agamemnon. Agamemnon was certainly a good warrior, but he'd always lingered, full of potential, in the shadow of Achilles, and his need for glory had gone unfulfilled for too long. Achilles knew this feeling of inferiority had led to Agamemnon's stealing his prizes of war and refusing to give them back. And so Achilles pitied Agamemnon, wondering why his own fate had not been given to the man who so obviously desired it.

But no matter what Agamemnon and the other warriors thought, Achilles knew he was not a coward. He was simply tired. Tired of the fighting, tired of the eternal war which was kept immortal by the gods on Olympus even as thousands of men perished. And perished for what? They had lost sight of what they were fighting for many battles ago; they now fought for nothing more than the whims of the gods.

The war was no longer noble to Achilles. It was tainted, impure. Achilles' keen sense of justice told him that fighting fairly was honorable; slaughtering with the help of a god was not. And so he had decided that he would no longer be a part of this quarrel of the gods. He knew his fate, and he chose to live to an old age rather than to die in battle. And if they judged him for wanting to live, let them judge.

And so he sat, with his music and his wine and his feasts. His loneliness was there, but it was kept at bay.

Patroclus helped curb the loneliness. Although not a fighter himself, Patroclus always knew what was going on in the war. People naturally trusted Patroclus, and told him about the details of the battles. He easily slipped in and out of the fighting, gathering information to feed to Achilles, knowing that Achilles needed an outlet for his anger. If he could not fight, he could at least talk about fighting, much as he had done as a child.

Patroclus had visited that day, bringing news, once again, of the Achaeans' difficulties. Patroclus's tone was never accusatory; he simply laid the facts out and allowed Achilles to vent or feign indifference, depending on his mood. That day, Achilles hadn't wanted to talk about the war at all, and so he and Patroclus fondly reminisced about their childhood memories.

Achilles was thinking so much about Patroclus's visit that he did not realize his armor was missing.


	4. Chapter 4

Patroclus is scared. For the first time, he begins to understand how Achilles must feel. But then, Achilles has always seemed invincible in battle. He does not fear fighting, only losing the ones he loves. That is his true weakness, not his heel, even though no one but Patroclus knows it. But Patroclus knows this, too: Achilles's fatal flaw is also his saving grace.

Patroclus has done something deceptive, but he does not feel guilty. No, guilt is for the weak of mind. Patroclus's mind has always been exceptional. Now its swift trickery will kill him, even as he wears Achilles's armor. The stolen armor that he swiped from Achilles's tent when he visited him.

He remembers how whenever envy surged in his heart as a young boy, he'd play the words of his father Menoetius over in his mind. "You're not a warrior, Patroclus; don't try to be one. You're a helper, a companion. Achilles needs you; be there for him." Now, every Achaean soldier needs him. Yes, it is nice to be needed. Patroclus has been waiting for this his whole life.

First, he is confident, and then the fear sets in.

He boosts the troops' morale. Just one sight of him rallies them together once again, and Patroclus wonders at Achilles' influence.

But then, fighting breaks out all around him. The soldiers expect him to lead the fight, like Achilles would have done. But he is not Achilles, and he is unsure. He is in too deep. But he chooses to jump into battle; after all, he has always been a fair fighter. Perhaps his father was wrong; perhaps he can be a warrior, too.

It's a mad rush and he begins to understand the appeal of battle, his senses alert and his mind racing. He cuts down many Trojans, and the hope of the Achaeans surges all around him. Yes, he is enjoying himself. Until he is struck down.

1, 2, 3. He counts his killers. Deadly destiny, wrecker of lives. Golden Apollo, son of Leto. Fierce Hector, breaker of horses.

And Achilles. Achilles' unwillingness to fight made Patroclus steal his fate. No, Patroclus is not a warrior, and he was foolish to think he could be.

And so he is dead; his destiny is fulfilled. But Achilles' is yet to come.


	5. Chapter 5

Achilles sits on the hill, waiting for Patroclus. His hand holds his lyre loosely, but he is too distracted to play.

He knows the Greeks are losing, and losing desperately. He knows it is because he stopped fighting, but he does not feel guilty. His country is no longer worth fighting for, and so he does not. But he still likes hearing updates from Patroclus, and today he is waiting for one.

A shadowed figure approaches, winding its way up the hill. Achilles smiles.

But it is not Patroclus. As the figure draws closer, Achilles sees that it is Antilochus, son of Nestor. Achilles has not seen him in a while, although they used to fight together, and he wonders what news he will bring, and why Patroclus is not bringing it instead.

Achilles can see that Antilochus's face is dark, his eyes tilted downward. His skin is lined; with tears or with worry, Achilles cannot tell.

"Ah, Antilochus! How are you faring? I know the Achaeans have been driven out of the plain; the gods must be against us again." His voice is booming with disingenuous cheer. He fears what Antilochus will say when he ceases to speak.

"Achilles…" Antilochus begins.

"But how is Patroclus? You must have seen him; he went just today to gather news of the troops."

Antilochus takes a staggered breath and begins to speak, resolved to say his message through to the end this time. "How I wish I did not have to speak these words, Achilles, but I must…Patroclus has fallen. He wore your armor and rallied the troops, he led them into battle…and he's dead, Achilles. Dead at the hands of Hector." Achilles says nothing, so Antilochus continues to speak, to fill the awful, pregnant void hovering between them. "He died a hero." Antilochus is weeping openly now.

Achilles turns away. Antilochus's grief is insulting, because it is only a shadow of what he himself feels. Achilles' face is a blank mask; his heart is shattering. He does not care that Patroclus died a hero. He, Achilles, was supposed to be the hero. Patroclus stole his destiny, stole the death that was meant for him. All he knows now is that Patroclus is dead, and he knows that it is his fault, and the rest is meaningless.

Except…Hector. He latches onto this name. Vengeance fills him, giving him a new purpose.

And suddenly, his grief is gone. It is replaced by anger. It chokes him.

And this anger will not leave until Hector is dead.


End file.
